


Bitter much?

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [59]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Instability, Self-Hatred, Vent writing that got out of hand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:15:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23078452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Maxwell is absolutely assured of who he is, how the world works around him, and why other people do the things they do.And there is nothing anyone can say that would change his mind.
Series: DS Extras [59]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21





	Bitter much?

**Author's Note:**

> More based off game mechanics than usual.

These binoculars were quite horrible, and their ugly lime coloration did not make them any more appealing.

They still smelled like a grave as well, which was deeply unfortunate since Maxwell had to bring them close to his face to use. The gravestone had "Lost and Found" written upon it, which he supposed was fitting but that didn't stop the ugly bit of equipment from stinking to high heaven.

At least it was just grave dirt odor, and not actually corpse death. Now that would have drawn the line of actually using it.

Right now, leaning through a particularly dense bush barren of berries, upon a hill that was just the right height, getting more dirt and leaves caught in his suit and hair, feeling a bit gritty from graverobbing, Maxwell was still debating on if _this_ , in fact, was actually crossing the line of sensible and polite.

Well, it absolutely was not polite. As a once King he certainly never cared on whether spying was polite form or not, and nowadays he knew well enough that his manners have been degrading far more than usual.

At least to the lot of the other survivors, whose manners on a whole were atrocious. Little to no privacy and very little regard for each others comforts, the lot of them!

Or, well, when they interacted with him anyway. They were polite to _each other_ , but obviously _he_ didn't deserve that respect, oh dear no, absolutely not.

Maxwell, in the predicament of hiding inside a terribly thorny bush and still dusty from digging in age old graves, was feeling particularly grumpy at the moment.

So that was his excuse for why he was spying upon the main encampment of the rest of the survivors. It was almost funny, how none of them even knew he was here!

The portal had spat him out months ago, deep at night of all times, and he had snuck off after pillaging a few torches and an empty pack, not at all up for dealing with the lot of them. Last world, and similarly life, had not ended so well.

It may have been his fault that a Varg ended up in camp, right on his heels as he tried to find anyone else to distract it, and it _may_ have been his fault he had tripped up the viking at the worst possible moment and the damn creature had gotten its jaws about her, and it most _certainly_ was his fault that he had acted the coward and ran from the fight at, again, the very worst moment, but-

Having a very biased judge and jury decide to _hang him_ , of all things! What a bunch of civilized barbarians!

The memory rose uncomfortably, idly rubbing a hand to his neck and swallowing thickly as to dispel the phantom pains, and it made something in his chest and gut squirm enough to make him focus the binoculars back up again, squint his eyes and try to get a good view.

This camp itself looked a little more organized than the last one he had known. These survivors seemed to have lived here long, and knew what they were doing with themselves.

It was always terribly hard, trying to fit timelines into the Constant. What a waste of time and energy, and Maxwell detested this new aspect of the world. The pawns should stay the same in each run, not _grow and change_ , that just made it so much harder to interact with them. Then the lot ended up looking at him as someone he was not, either viewing as a recently dethroned Tyrant or, for some ungodly reason, the frail old man that he was.

Which was not, in fact, how he wanted to be seen as. If he had to be prickly and rude about it just to change a few minds then he'd take the negative consequences for his actions just to be acknowledged correctly. These horrid people made all sorts of assumptions, and he _hated_ every single one of them.

He hated lots of things, now that he thought about it. He hated the rose and marble portals, he hated this new, ever changing Constant, he hated how he was now hiding in a bush spying on the lot of them like some mad hoodlum, and he absolutely _hated_ the rest of the pawns and their stupidity.

Like over there, by the local alchemy engine. Higgsbury was down there, having pulled away one of the sheet metal sides and was pulling and tugging and clipping wires, and right beside him flashing his hands about was the mime.

Wes signed as Wilson worked, the scientist keeping an eye out to interpret the silent words while still trying to clip and tie and fix, nodding his head and answering every now and then, both men so deeply engrossed in their little interaction together and making Maxwell narrow his eyes and glare at them through the binoculars. 

The mime was interrupting Higgsburys work, yet didn't seem to give a single care on that matter, favoring his hand signs and expressions more. Maxwell had no clue what was being said, he never bothered learning what Wes's hands communicated when the fellow could mime his intent near perfectly every time, what reason was there for any other way? But now he couldn't sparse even a hint of what their conversation was about, nothing whatsoever in their eager little chattering.

And then Wes idly scooted closer, brushed his hands to Higgsburys shoulders, and Maxwell bristled as he watched the man actually _lean into the touch._

So, they were an item this run, were they? 

Of course they were, of course. That happened frequently enough, Wes got on well with Wilson, they had history after all, save a man from entrapment and he was ever in your debt-

Maxwell forcefully turned the binoculars away as the two went along with a more pronounced display of affection, his shoulders stiff and face curled into a tense snarl, something in his chest knotting up.

He absolutely _detested_ how these new portals worked. Things were always so different on the other side, and the grass was most certainly _not_ greener.

The binoculars turned downward, drifted over the padded dirt and some set wood planks of the campgrounds, and landed upon the two youngest as they played.

Wendy sat on her knees, intently tying a fat porcelain gnome to a bit of wood, speaking as Webber watched on with just as much focus, their claws holding up what appeared to be a wooden toy crocodile. They made its wobbly jaws wiggle as she finished tying a large knot to the back of the piece of wood, reaching over to a rather cheap looking cobra toy at her side and slithering it through the dirt and yellow grass, wrapping up the tied gnome and dragging it over to-

A clay bowl of water. With a wiggle of the cobras head, Wendy plunked the gnome into the bowl, taking a deep breath and then visibly holding it. Webber seemed to do the same, making their crocodile comically open its jaws and then snap them closed.

For a few seconds, the two children held their breath.

And then Wendy let hers out in a deep exhale, Webbers spider limbs outstretching and wiggling as they followed suit, and both gave the submerged gnome a sorrowful look, Webber crawling their crocodile close as to seemingly look over the edge of the clay bowl and mourn.

Wendy made the toy cobra sadly shake its head, move its wiggly tail as to act out wiping a single tear from its eye, and then she turned her attention to another set up right beside her, Webber drawn back as she started speaking once more.

This one had a gnomette tied to a bunch of sticks, all piled together in a particular way, and beside that was the firestarters lighter, flower and colors and all.

The toy cobra was moved in front of the trapped gnomette, and Wendy gestured its tail as she gave her speech, and Maxwell by now had grown a bit bored and possibly unnerved.

Where in the world had she learned of witch drownings and burnings? Someone must have taught her that, and as he moved the binoculars vision away he landed upon the most likely candidate.

Wickerbottom sat in a rather lovely looking wooden rocking chair, book in her lap and eyeglasses set on her face, relaxed by the fire and not seeming to be obliged to do a damn thing whatsoever. Willow was actually at the fireside, hands playing and curling through the flames, entirely focused and content, like a child given the most pleasant of distractions.

Maxwell supposed that, technically, that was how it was. The firestarter was no child by far, but her fixation on fire could only be overshadowed by very few things.

Commotion that made the woman raise her head, tear her gaze away from the flickering flames had him swerve the binoculars towards one of those few things.

The viking came trotting in from the entrance of the camp, hauling what appeared to be a giant fleshy trunk on her shoulder, huge pigskin packs hanging from her shoulders and dripping blood in a trail behind her. The scene seemed to catch a mild scolding from Wickerbottom, but the old woman laid off as Willows face split into a grin, leaping up and darting from her dancing flames to instead greet the viking.

In a very particular, much too friendly way to just be "friends". Maxwell found his scowl, and mood, steadily dropping lower and lower the longer he watched them converse, a long firm hug and beaming of faces, friendly and at ease as Willow helped the other woman set aside the meat to dry on racks or be stored in iceboxes, the trunk in particular handled carefully and with the air of it not being planned to be food later.

All that meat down there and all Maxwell could do was sit here and stare at it. His gut twisted uncomfortably, a reminder of how little he has been eating these last few days, but he stubbornly ignored it to focus his gaze elsewhere.

This time his eyes landed upon the kitchen, where a few crockpots sat diligently with the flames lit underneath, lids letting out a bit of steam here and there, and attending to it all was none other than the chef of the Constants tropical islands.

Warly was a rare sight to see indeed, and there was Wolfgang, helping out in handing over supplies, preparing, nodding his head and chatting along with the near manic pace of the spindly chef. They seemed to get along well, looking quite happy indeed with their little set up, which was new since Maxwell knew Warly was a very anxious sort of person who near never stopped worrying. It was a new sight, one from this horribly new Constant, and Maxwell frowned even more, simmering as he peered upon them with even more agitation.

There was a flutter of activity a moment, both men turning as if they had been hailed and then raising their hands in greeting, and Maxwell watched as Woodie entered the picture, ax comfortably in hand and smiling a buck toothed smile as he escorted ever lovely Lucy through camp. The lumberjack gestured behind him, back near the tent closest to the makeshift kitchen, and there were a few batches, piles of neatly set wood, and Wolfgang gave a beaming smile and clapped a hand to the man's shoulder as he went to retrieve a few pieces, taking them to set under the crockpots. Warly chatted, animated and excited almost, probably describing _exactly_ what he was making, and Woodie had lifted Lucy up a bit, spoke a few questions and even looking as if relaying his ax's words as well.

The both of them looked comfortable talking to each other, and even when Wolfgang came butting in there were no hard feelings, no sudden dismissal, only an invite to the conversation as they all talked, waiting for the crockpots to finish their cooking of the camps meals.

Maxwell sneered as he watched, switching the binocular viewpoint in between all their smiling faces. 

Warly, looking actually calm for once, clean and without the salty roughness the seas usually gave him, that lack of thick nervous energy. 

Wolfgang, smile near never leaving his face, talking and not at all looking unsure at his tone, volume, language, pronunciation. 

Woodie, ginger mustache and beard amplifying his genuine smile, content and happy, the faint lines of tired work on his face from felling those trees, and Lucy in his firm arms, gleaming in the sunlight.

Maxwell could almost imagine her swelteringly thin, cheerful voice, except this time, it probably sounded a lot more true and happy instead of faked.

He broke his gaze away quite abruptly, irritation scrawling up his spine and making him bite the inside of his cheek and then immediately regret it as faint traces of warm foul iron tinged his tongue. Damn sharp teeth, and the mess of his jaw that made near anything terribly complicated.

The binoculars roamed the calm campsite a moment before finally landing on what he assumed were the last of the survivors living together, out by the tents and neatly organized chests.

Winona stood there, hands on her hips, eyebrows knitted in thought as she spoke to the automaton that stood like a brick wall next to her. Before her was an assortment of supplies, for a tent maybe, or something of the sort, Maxwell had little to no knowledge on that sort of thing nor did he give much of a damn really.

WX78 was stock still, steam pluming up from their joints and eyes intent on the engineer, so it was a bit difficult trying to figure out if they were talking or not. It was unusual to see them interacting with another survivor, the bot had an antisocial streak and was a bit too much violently minded, Maxwell knew they usually camped away in their own space, but right now it seemed as if they were playing nice.

The woman gestured here and there, pointed to the sticks and fabrics and ropes, then scratched the back of her head as she seemed to ask the robot a question, genuine curiosity and not at all looking annoyed or irritable. WX78, for their part, hissed a large cloud of steam as their shoulders did a shrug, but they rose up a hand in a gesture and it looked as if they were answering back in a friendly, non hostile manner, at least judging from Winona's thoughtful nodding as she looked back to the mess of supplies.

Maxwell supposed, out of all of them, Winona would be one of the few the android got along with. She was blunt, down to earth, and didn't dance around her words too much, which made her all the more comfortable to speak to honestly.

Perhaps Maxwell was a hint bit biased; that woman knew near nothing but hearsay about him, and as such was far easier to speak to at times. If he did his best at not being passive aggressive or manipulative with her, then that was something he was not willing to admit to anyone.

She deserved respect regardless, and Maxwell scowled as he watched her focused face for a moment. If he ever tried to reintroduce himself anywhere, she would be the link that would most easily accept him.

He's never truly tried that before, as it felt a bit underhanded, but acknowledging that possibility set his nerves at ease. Made it smoother to do it the hard way when he already knew there was an easy way in.

Then his binocular vision slid to the side, towards the android, one that always seemed to hold every single grudge-

And their empty gaze stared right back up at him.

Maxwell froze, blinked once, and watched as the robots head tilted ever so slightly, before they reached out to tap Winona on the arm, head turning as they seemed to speak up.

That was his cue to leave, apparently.

Swiftly taking the binoculars and stuffing them away in his worn pack, Maxwell hurriedly swung the bag to his back and shrugged its weight into a more comfortable position, hunched over as he quickly scurried his way out of the back of the bush. Hiking down the back of the hill in a fast fashion was a bit risky, but he only tripped up a few times on jutting rocks as he started in a minor run, leaving the camp behind.

Overhead, another cue rose up as thunder rumbled in the distance, thick black clouds rolling in from the coast and heralding the tail end of noon, the soon to be arriving night. He might be a bit too far from his thrown together camp to reach it in time, and walking through the rain with a torch was a terrible idea. 

He had also left his lantern back at his camp, like the fool that he was, so now he'd need to actually find shelter to wait it out instead. At least he could appreciate the coming storm; the rain will hide his tracks, if WX78 actually alarmed anyone with the thought that someone was spying on them. 

They shouldn't be able to identify him, not with him hidden in a bush, but the storm will hide any traces he left behind, thank goodness for that.

His run was short lived, slowing a bit into a trot as his already frail stamina drained down into dredges, feeling the very air charge with the coming thunderstorm.

It didn't take long for the rain to start, small at first, a light drizzle that Maxwell grumbled at and adjusted his pack as he sped up his pace, but when it really started to come down he had to sprint for the safety of a nearby pine tree. His suit jacket was near doused in water, the cold already cutting through as he got up close to the pines trunk and tried to ignore the few droplets that slipped through its needles just to end up on his head, and then swung around his bag as to dig around in it.

He didn't have much stuffed in here, too much weight slowed him down, made his joints ache, and surviving alone was a terrible thing to do to oneself but he'd rather take sore pains over possible executions.

Not to even mention the scathing words, the arguments, the passive aggressive comments and mocking and belittling and name calling. He played the game long enough, he even played nice, he gnawed on the little bits of pleasantness and kindness the lot of them were willing to give him and, right now, at this point in time, with his mental state, Maxwell was done trying to fit in.

It was hard enough as it was with his past history with the survivors, but what made it worse was knowing that near no one in that encampment even _liked_ him.

He didn't like them either, so ha! He didn't care, not at all.

Maxwell most certainly did not care, and he never would.

He was _absolutely_ sure of that, one hundred percent, and nothing, _nothing_ would _ever_ change his mind.

Right now, jaw grit tight as he dug around a few unlit torches and handfuls of twigs and grass, some flint and chunks of birchtree logs, the former Nightmare King was incredibly peeved and feeling rather unhappy about the state of everything around him as well as himself and his predicament.

He was not going to think about it, however. The last time he thought about such things too long he was fairly certain he had committed suicide, which wasn't too uncommon of him but he'd rather not think of _that_ either. 

It was both shameful and cowardly, and even worse knowing the Queen of the Constant probably got a good chuckle out of it all. Was he dramatic enough for Their entertainment, huh, was he???

At times he supposed that was the best he could ever hope for, but again, he tried to not think of it too often. Such spirals left a bad taste to the air, not to mention the drop of his mental state, and having shadows prey upon him until he was practically begging for death was just not fit for someone who had once been King.

Honestly, that was probably one of the many, many reasons none of the others cared for him much. He clung too hard to the idea of being _former_ King, but…

He didn't really have much else to cling to nowadays.

Finally his gloved hands snagged upon something useful, not another damn emergency torch, he'd rather not be caught out in the dark unless he truly wanted to die, and Maxwell tugged out a near brand new straw hat.

It was a bit squashed now, stuffed down near the bottom as it had been, but he hasn't really used it much ever since he had "borrowed" it from the survivors little oasis camp.

Well, borrowed was perhaps the wrong word.

He stole it, was what he had done. He was sure the others wouldn't miss it, not at all, and if they did well, sucks to be them. They could always make another, with all those people in one spot able to gather the supplies and then knit and knot together the straw and shape it up and then give it to each other, share the item while laughing and talking and enjoying each others company-

Once upon a time, Maxwell had actually _liked_ being in large camps.

But it's been awhile and he was fairly sure he got over the novelty of being surrounded by companionable people who _pretended_ they gave a damn about each other. He honestly should have trusted his own twisted gut instincts, especially knowing what he had known on the Throne.

These people were _terrible people_ , and they had been dragged here for a reason. 

You can't trust anyone in the Constant, no matter how nice and kind they acted or pretended to be.

Playing pretend only went so far, as Maxwell knew perfectly well by now, and even he was part of the game, the song and dance and scripted play. He's done his fair share, got it in return, and now that the fantasy has worn off he saw only just how much he absolutely _hated_ everything and everyone.

Swinging the pack back around to shoulder, holding the straw hat in his hands and eyeing its tight knitting, done by someone with extraordinary sewing talents, by someone who had an eye for thread and string detail, obviously by someone who had familiarity with sewing and stitching and even building with string and thread and silk, of course silk, Maxwell would know this work anywhere it was too perfect to be made by any of the older incompetent survivors-

 _He hated everyone_ , he reminded himself, something foul and bitter knotting up in his chest as he forced himself to stop letting his mind lose the train of thought, instead swiftly putting the straw hat upon his head and protect him from a smattering of cold droplets escaping the branches up above.

If he kept reminding himself of that, then he wouldn't end up making anymore unnecessary, stupid mistakes.

Like go back to the lot of them. Because that was _not_ what he was going to do, no, never.

He had enough, and being alone in the Constant was fine. He had been alone on the Throne and he had been fine, so-

Well, "fine" was a relative term, ask anyone else and he was sure they'd not use the word to describe him when he had been full Nightmare King, but as if their opinions _mattered_.

They didn't. None of their ugly little words mattered, not to him. Just like how his own lying voice added up to mean so little to them, then so was theirs in comparison.

If that was a twisted line of thinking Maxwell was just going to accept it and move on. He's had to do that a lot recently.

The hat wasn't going to do much for him if the storm got stronger, which a rolling cackle of thunder a few miles away spoke truth of, so Maxwell only hesitated a moment, brushed his cold gloves over his sodden suit before he made a rush out from under the pine and out into the rain. Trees were good protection for a short while, but he needed better shelter for when it got dark.

He may not know this area very well, he didn't live close to the main camp if he could help it, but there was a bit of rough terrain, hills and a few cliffsides, a cave system even further away, so he was hoping that perhaps there would be a bit of shelter somewhere-

And just like that Maxwell squinted through the growing rainfall and spotted a clear overhang.

He didn't waste time as he hurried over to it, ducking away from the rain and shivering as he had a blurry look around, checking in case of other beasts hiding from the rainfall, but this was no cave tunnel. Only a short walk in, he could even see the end cave walls still in the dying light, rocks and boulders piled about with the usual moss and mushroom growths. No lightbulbs, as to be expected, and some sort of scrawling ivy drifted in from the outside, but it was fairly open and fairly empty of anything noteworthy.

Safe enough for tonight. In the morning he could hurry himself back to his own measly little setup, and hopefully forget this entire mess.

Maxwell couldn't even remember _why_ he had come out this far, so close to the others. There was no reason for it, nothing to help for his own survival, not at all.

Finding the binoculars must have spurred on a drifting subconscious idea, though now he recognized that, whatever he had hoped to vaguely achieve, nothing had come of it.

Scowling, shoving such thoughts to the side to unpack later, or perhaps never, the old man got to work shrugging off his pack and crouching down to dig out supplies for a fire.

He'd not sleep tonight, as usual. He wasn't partial to such luxury when alone, and it has been a great long while since he has actually slept, now that he thought of it.

The Throne hadn't let him sleep either.

That thought came in like a nasty worm, a foul taste in his mouth as his soaked clothes started to get to him, hands shaking in his shivers as Maxwell fought with the logs and grasses, trying to set them up. The light outside was steadily dying, and the rainfall that came down like a waterfall at the entrance of his small shelter obscured the little light he had left just enough to make this difficult.

And he truly did not wish to die tonight.

Not yet, at any rate.

His hands fumbled, a low aching cramp in his left that made his fingertips numb, but Maxwell snarled as he pushed through it, flint in one hand as he adjust the logs for a third time, trying very, very hard to not knock them over again. Damn these old hands, and how quickly the cold got to him nowadays.

He never got cold on the Throne either.

A quick shake of his head knocked the thought away, just enough for him to lean down and squint his eyes at the fodder and force his hands to cooperate, just enough, he just needed one spark-

The light was definitely leaving now, darkening by the second as his vision quickly started to dissipate, and hissing out a strained exhale between his tightly clenched teeth Maxwell tried, again, to start a light.

The flint had gotten a bit damp in his pack, unfortunately, and no matter how he tried to still them his hands wouldn't stop shaking, every breath getting a bit harder to maintain the longer he was without fire, low sharp scrapes that fumbled and clacked together as the rest of him wouldn't stop trembling, soaked near to the bone and very, very cold, too damn cold-

There was noise, sound, dragging movement out in the dark as he just barely could see his own hands now, a steadily increasing rush of inhaled air that was getting closer, a horrid build up of a screech he knew almost intimately well by now as his hands shook and he grit his teeth and tried _again_ -

A spark, the briefest of flashes, and then the slightly damp grasses finally caught.

Maxwell did not lift his head to the darkness of night that surrounded him, that had been rushing in, crashing down, just about ready to engulf and consume, the eyes that he absolutely knew were there, watching him, and instead shakily leaned down and tried to encourage up the small flame. The chill from the storm thankfully did not bring with it a wind, or at least no wind that would shove its way into his temporary shelter, must have lucked out with which direction the storm was heading. 

A bit of adjusting, careful with the ring of stones that would hopefully keep any pooled water from dousing his light anytime during the night, and a few measured exhales had the fire starting up a bit stronger, eating through the grass and starting on the wood. He had enough in his pack to last the night, just barely, and if worse came to worse he could always just throw in the straw hat.

His hand rose up to briefly brush the wide rim, tight and clean straw patterns, before Maxwell shook his head with a scowl and took it off in one sweep, setting it instead atop the boulder his back was leaned up against, backpack set at his side.

If he had to, he would have to. That was just how it was when living in the Constant alone.

Something so very unlike the Throne, both despised and appreciated. And with that added bonus of having been given a choice in the manner, it was almost too easy to decide which had been the better option.

A heavy built up sigh eased from his lungs, leaning back and closing his eyes briefly as the tension let up, finally giving him that moment of reprieve.

And then Maxwell sneezed.

It came up a lot more dry and rough than was comfortable, lungs gargling in his chest a moment as he wheezed, curled up at the sudden shock, before he slowly straightened back up again, swallowing thickly. The cold had drained low, even with the fire going, and his arms still shook and his fingers were still numb, clothing sodden and sticking to him terribly, and the old man shivered and shook and snarled out at the darkness and the pounding of the rain outside.

He moved slow, aches already setting in from his little ventured hike and the utter lack of anything useful he's found doing so, and Maxwell eased off his soaked suit jacket, wet and dripping rain water everywhere and making the fire spark and hiss at minor flung droplets. Keeping the sleeves pulled out, a bit more trouble as he held it out a moment and examined it as critically as he could, with this low light and his blurry vision, before the jacket was shakily set aside upon another nearby boulder.

He had to struggle to his knees to reach it, gritting his jaw as he forced himself to go slow, methodical, he was _not_ going to just throw the only bit of clothing he still sort of adored onto the damp ground, but the act of moving and shivering just made his mood dampen even more so.

And now there was the ever so slightest tickle in the back of his throat, aggravated everytime he took a breath. The smoke of his fire thankfully was not targeted upon him, drifted high and out through the waterfall of rainwater, so ventilation was not the cause.

Maxwell sat back down with a heavy sigh, sodden undershirt and vest and other clothing sticking to his skin uncomfortably, thinning hair pasted to his head and gritting his jaw tight to prevent his teeth from chattering, still dripping rainwater and still so damn cold, and he hoped to whatever Shadow out there that was watching him that he wasn't going to get sick.

Perhaps he should hope for the Queen's mercy, actually. She most certainly wouldn't grant him any favors, but like any good monarch she must appreciate the begging of her subjects.

Maxwell remembered, vaguely at the best of times and stronger at the worst, that he had gained some sort of satisfaction from the groveling of pawns. It was immensely pleasing, being untouched upon the top of the world.

Except, the Throne and heartbeat of the Constant was at the very, very bottom, and once banished everything ever done was suddenly brought right back up and justice was called for, or more like screamed and roared for really.

Some of the pawns were still incredibly displeased with the state of affairs Maxwell had tended to as Nightmare King.

Rubbing his throat, wincing at the flare up of almost remembered pain, hanging was something that just never really left the mind alone, Maxwell truly hoped that itch in his throat and the shivering cold was nothing more than delayed reaction to being soaked with rain. The Constant did not treat illness kindly, not at all, and if he came down with the cold or a flu, or perhaps something even worse, he had gotten close to that camp and, well, not being around other mortals for a very long time did in fact make him a bit more vulnerable to their disgusting sneezing and coughing. He may have the lifeblood of the Constant running through his veins, it wasn't hospitable whatsoever to onseting sickness, but that didn't mean he _couldn't_ get sick.

Just meant it took a great deal of stress to let his guard down, and Maxwell hoped this was just a blip of discomfort, nothing more.

Because, closing his eyes for only a moment, he could almost envision himself, back at his shoddy thrown together camp, his sagging tent, shaking with inner cold and hot waves and congested and head stuffed with cotton, just waiting for death to come and end it.

In large camps, with other people, he supposed they were a bit useful for when that happened. Sickness was contagious, and even if he hid away in his tent waiting to die someone always ended up shoving their nose into his business and then pressuring him, _forcing_ him to get better.

If he was sick, he was no use to the camp, only a drain. They wanted him better so he could be of use to them, that was his line of reasoning, and it did make logical sound sense.

Didn't hold up when he sometimes remembered there had been more than obligation at times, kindness even when he awoke from fever nightmares and terrors and needed help with the most basic of actions, but Maxwell usually shoved such thoughts away, didn't think of them.

Because, unfortunately, remembering the few good parts made all the bad memories worse. 

His hands were not shaking so much anymore, the warmth from the fire bleeding through, and after a moment of eyeing them Maxwell hissed out an exhale, itch rubbing raw at the back of his throat, and eased off his soaked gloves.

The leather was far softer than when they had been brand new, worn and discolored in some places, the dampness cold and numbing his already numb fingertips as he rubbed the leather in slow, soothing motions between his fingers, another, slower let out breath at the mindless act.

If he had had the Codex on him he'd have taken it out of his bag by now, held it to his damp lap and let his hands wander the red dipped engraving, the inner heat and heartbeat of the old tome.

But, as he has had to go through time and time again, keeping the Codex close was not always in his best interest. It ached something fierce to leave it behind in his tent, beneath his sagging pillow and frayed attempts at blankets, and the first few times had him always rushing back to camp just to check, make sure it was still there, still safe, but it was better to know where the Codex was than not at all.

If he died with it on him, it could get damaged, ravaged, torn apart or lost or soaked through or injured in some horrible way, and it was far safer at his camp, unassuming and derelict as his residence always looked. The Codex itself was a bit bothered by the nonsense, leaking and whispering and always dripping shadowy handprints to his sleeves and jacket whenever he got back to it, but it was just something he had to live with now.

In a large camp, Maxwell was much too paranoid to let the tome out of his sight, always had it on him. He couldn't trust the others to not get itchy fingers, and faint half memories of other people handling the Codex, looking upon its blank pages and mocking it, and then him, had his chest knot up and rage set his jagged teeth into a snarl. 

He's always made it clear that the Codex was his and his alone, and yet someone always ended up sneaking off with it. Maybe they thought it was _funny_ , or a _joke_ or even _prank_ , but when things went wrong and the Codex Umbra ended up in the fire screeching and howling as nightmare fuel burst from its pages Maxwell was understandably upset.

...There was internal debate, in the late nights of his insomnia and the whispered gibbering of shadows pacing right outside his tent, on whether he deserved it. Most times his favor never won out, though only the Codex seemed to ever be on his side, whispering words and soothing letters, images and moving pictures to distract him.

Funny, or perhaps ironic, that the cursed book that had started this all had his back when he himself didn't.

Curling the old gloves in his hands, the shakes finally leaving him with only the minor chronic tremble, the ache of old bones and joints background noise, Maxwell heaved a sigh as he wished he had brought the Codex along with him. The shadows company could never hold up to one of the other survivors, even the murderous ones, but sitting here, alone in a small cave at the side of a hill or mountain of sorts, only the rainfall and crackling fire, only him and his sodden mood, it wasn't particularly pleasant.

And not at all like what he had seen, spying upon the group of survivors and their little campsite. The rain may drive them into their tents, but he had seen some bigger stored pieces, folded and put away, and the thought that the lot of them had figured out how to make canopy and even possibly gazebo tents just made him even more irritated.

Lovely little camp like that, infested with horribly rude pawns that he wanted near nothing to do with. 

So what if he hasn't actually introduced himself to these people in this lifetime as of yet? Maxwell was entirely sure of himself in keeping well away, not at all trusting or even willing to trust the lot of them.

As if they had ever shown trust to him before. Then again, they had no reason to, and Maxwell has always made sure they never would have to.

If he did anything that was in their favor, sprinkle in a few offensive words, mean spirited jokes and be as antagonistic as possible and no one would be the wiser.

Well, no adult anyhow. Webber was always difficult to shake off, and Maxwell always had a hard time with the child's affection. 

Hard to teach someone that he didn't _deserve_ such kindness when they already knew every little horrible thing he's ever done. Discomfort rose thick in his chest whenever he thought of it, remembered how, exactly, he's killed this child and how much pain he must have pushed upon them as a tyrant Nightmare King, and yet their innocence, or perhaps gullibility, made them always seem to forgive him.

A terrible move on their part, and betraying them always broke the thing that wasn't quite a heart in his chest but sometimes there were things that had to be done and Maxwell had a reputation to uphold.

If he had to break the trust that was stupidly given to him each and every time, then he would just have to ensure no mistakes are being made. Better to do it first, before the rest of them got the idea.

The pawns may all be here for a reason they knew not of, pulled in and wrestled into stark torturous survival, but Maxwell knew very well why he was here in the first place, oh yes, and the Constant and its Queen will not let him forget.

If either ever did, then he would just have to remind himself, not fall into cozy ways or soften himself too much. That would allow the knife that would inevitably end up in his back to hurt all the worse, and Maxwell did not want to go through that sort of pain anymore.

It's happened before, at one time or another. People change, and then the Constant rewires them back into place and all their justified anger is back to its boiling point, and it didn't matter if he has tried to right any wrongs in those lifetimes, it didn't matter if he grew content and softer around these people, if he has ever so slowly learned how to trust them. If they were suddenly reminded of all the hurt and pain they had gone through under his reign then their next set of actions were justified.

And, while murder was a little more spur of the moment, execution was a bit more planned out.

Maxwell winced, swallowed thickly and ignored the roughness of his own throat, and forced himself to not raise his hands and check his neck once more. This body did not have any of the evidence of the last life, but even passing through a portal to a new world did not erase the nightmares that plagued him, old and new. 

He may be physically weak and frail enough to not survive a few hits, but everyone should know by now that it took him a long time to die.

The leather of the gloves were still damp, not as waterlogged now, and Maxwell slowly laid those out onto another boulder, this time next to his pack. The warmth was easing into his front, goosebumps up and down his arms as his shivers finally lessened, exhaustion deep in his bones and dragging now as the weight of the day, and past few months, started to drop upon his shoulders and drag him low. 

For a moment, the simmering boil of emotion that had been awoken in his chest just by spying upon the survivors homey little camp started to simper down a bit. The cold had settled, his spine now blossoming with aches and pains he'd never be able to ease out of himself, and sparking faint memories rose unbidden through his mind as the fire crackled and danced all on its lonesome.

He remembered...well. His memory was shot at times, eaten through by amnesia and the merciless bidding of the Queen, but sometimes half memories rose up, ghosted over him when he was good and properly alone. 

Of phantom touch, of phantom kindness. Once upon a time, Maxwell had gone through the same song and dance each and every lifetime, played his part just like every other pawn. He couldn't ever call them _friends_ , no, that requires more out of him that he had never been willing to give, but he had believed that acquaintances were better than nothing.

Not anymore, of course. Too many times a spear through his back, tied to a lit flaming tree, haunting pan flue charms and sudden bursting tentacles through soft grassy ground, hound teeth daggers through the throat or, as he previously still remembered, a noose about his neck and struggling for air as everyone morbidly looked on.

The children had been sent to bed early, as he could recall. Couldn't let the little ones see such a horrific display of justice, huh?

That hadn't stopped Wendy from sneaking from her tent, hidden away by the chests, eyes wide and silently watching. Her sister was not by her side, sleeping still in her flower, and the girl had looked small, fragile back there, even as his eyes had watered and everything had blurred and twisted into swirls of dark grey shadow.

Someone had spoken up, asked if they could make this quicker, a razor to the throat; perhaps it had been Higgsbury, the man had a softer heart sometimes, all too merciful really, but the idea had been shot down quickly.

Often times he wondered if they all knew just how similar they were to himself. Watching death was a fascinating process, he used to make it a hobby upon the Throne, gained some sort of satisfaction from it. Yes, it was his fault someone, or a fair bit of someones did end up dying due to hounds but they had all been _revived_ later, they were still _alive_ technically. 

Yet the fact they had all so wholeheartedly _condemned_ him, not even a vote in his favor, and then stood around to watch him die like that…

It left something unpleasant to stir inside himself, bare hand idly rubbing his throat and swallowing thickly, another blur of itchy roughness nagging at him. A few of them had averted their eyes, at the very least.

He supposed he had gotten unlucky, dumped into a world full of pawns who still remembered their hatred with fresh rage. It happened often enough, and he pondered if the Queen was the reason for that.

What he deserved, no doubt. All the infinite of time he has acted as torturous tyrant King and there would never be a time where he has suffered enough as payment.

And who was to judge that thought besides himself? Even the Codex went quiet when he asked it, low and whispered deep in the night, of if there would ever be a time where he has paid his final due.

These thoughts, these cursed half memories, they plagued him so much nowadays. If he was with the others he became too distracted, too wrapped up in their petty dramas to remind himself of such things; out on his lonesome the thoughts came unbidden and unwanted, and yet he could do nothing to dispel them.

Better this way, he supposed. Maxwell felt that it wouldn't do if he ever forgot the _why_ of it all, especially since it all traced back to his own selfish desires and twisted decision making. The others did not quite deserve to suffer through the eternity of hell he had signed himself up for oh so long ago.

That was his burden alone, his choice. Can't back out of it now, not this deep in, and he was always continuously digging the pit ever deeper, just to ensure he'd not find the way out.

The thoughts, acknowledgment of self destruction settled hard and cold in his chest, nagging bad and silent besides the fires idle crackling, embers sparked here and there, and Maxwell curled his arms about his chest and tried to get more comfortable. The dirt packed ground under him was cold, didn't warm from the fire with the slides of cavern stone hidden underneath the sand; even pulling his legs up and huddling low didn't help much with the shivering. 

He'd not think about how some of it was not caused by the night's stormy temperatures. He didn't need to let his mind wander anymore than it already has.

The gnawing itch of his wrists were stubbornly ignored as well, hands holding to his arms and curling tight to his undershirts sleeves, and Maxwell stared into the flames and nowhere else. The bite of his throat was getting more jagged, more noticeable, but he narrowed his eyes and ignored that too.

In the deep of the fires core, he could see the licking greens, even blues amongst the orange, dancing about and glowing the logs with ember cracks, spreading like hot blooded veins through the wood.

If the arsonist were here she'd have ran her fingers through those colors.

 _That_ thought rose unbidden, made Maxwell's face curl into a harsh snarl once again, pulling his knees up tighter and ignoring the warning creak of his back as he wrapped his arms about his legs. 

He _hated_ how much he knew of those people, how easy it was to imagine them. His time on the Throne gave him near too much information, but it was the time he spent living with them that gave him that knowledge.

He knew all sorts of things, the fires Willow truly loved and danced in as she sang old half remembered lullabies with Burnie, the way Wes's eyes would light up from remembrance whenever he got Wendy to laugh with a well timed mime and charade, that quiet sound that was near a snort and the low downturn of her eyes as she realized no one would scold her anymore for just a simple giggle, the bouncing of Webber as they'd introduce all their friends to one another, the spider language clicking smoothly from their human throat and the absolutely delight when Wigfrid had shown respect to their spider warrior friends, the viking when she bathed in the blood of her enemies, thick purple hound blood and the laughter and cheering from Wolfgang as they dragged carcasses back to share, the strongman digging up family old recipes for a feast in preparation at Winters mid end that had Wickerbottom contently wrapping presents and crossing names off lists and even the ever antisocial WX78 participating, the slow stunned moment when they were handed their first ever gift and the quiet ticking afterwards when they held it close and let the background conversation of camp wash over them, the lull of talk between Woodie and Lucy as the woodsman sat back atop a tree trunk he himself had cut down and remembered what it was like to have a family again, the rattling rambles of Wilson as he sketched and scribbled and then went to hammering and hacking and sawing on some new machine or other that he truly believed would help everyone in the best of ways, each and every time-

Something cold and hard and _mean_ twisted inside him, aching terribly.

Maxwell _hated_ them all.

He had been the one to bring them here, and he _hated_ them and every single one of their quirks and traits and the sheer personality in each and every one of them, the utter diverse range of warm _humanity_ -

The old man closed his eyes, shut away the fires light as he pressed his face to his knees, and he was cold and damp and there was a sickly feeling turning in his chest, his gut and mind, roughness in his throat and itching, gnawing temptation wrapped about his wrists like the shackles of the ever cooing Throne. 

The rain continued to pour outside of his temporary shelter, a low rumble of thunder miles away as the fire crackled on in the lone company of the former Nightmare King as he waited out the night.


End file.
